Born of Chaos
by JUSTxAxFRIENDLYxPSYCHO
Summary: Based on Anhkmorpork's Sirius is Loki Challenge: "Following the Chitauri invasion of New York, Loki is sentenced to live on Midgard as a powerless mortal, but something goes wrong. He is reborn in the past as Sirius Orion Black." One-shot, for now.
1. Chapter 1

**Born Of Chaos**

This is a response to the _**Loki is Sirius Challenge**_by **Anhkmorpork**

**Summary (based upon Challenge): **As punishment for the Chitauri invasion of New York, Loki is stripped of his Asgardian magic and his memories, and sent down to Midgard to live his life as a mortal. However, Odin did not consider the consequences of meddling with the embodiment of chaos...though Loki's magic is gone, his power over the forces of chaos is not. Instead of landing in the present as a mortal man, he rips a hole through time and space, where—against all probability—he is reborn to magical mortals as the first born male Black Heir, Sirius Orion.

**Additional Challenge Elements in use:**

*Sterile James

*Harry is shape-shifting son of Sirius-Loki

**This story becomes AU post Sirius' Death. FYI.**

**Disclaimer: Not Mine. Obviously. The plot is mine...mostly, though not the prompt. I do so hope I don't need to clarify further.**

**As I am in the midst of a rewrite for my story ****_Recognizing Genius, _****as well as writing two feature length scripts, I am leaving this as a one-shot...for now. It may or may not be expanded, depending on reception. I am many things, but not a mind-reader, so if you'd like to see this expanded upon, let me know. Thanks.**

… … o … …

Mostly, he remembered the smell of metal. The metal of the cuffs binding his wrists, cutting off his magic. The metal of the heavy muzzle, crushing his bruised lips. The metallic tang of the blood running down his face from where his body had violently met the unforgiving concrete of the Man of Iron's tower floor. Even before anything else, all He-Who-Was-Once-Sirius could remember was that wretched scent of metal. He knew it was impossible that he was smelling it now, wherever he was, but the phantom scent lingered, clogging his nose, and he recoiled from it violently.

His hands twitched, aching to clench around something that wasn't there...a wand? No, that wasn't quite right. A scepter...a scepter that glowed the most enticing, brilliant blue...brighter than any stolen relic his not-father kept hidden in his vaults. His fingers twitched, reaching for a weapon, any weapon, that would shred the wretched, smothering darkness and banish that detested, vulgar smell.

_Hvedrungr..._

Sirius twitched and strained against invisible chains as grasping, rotting hands of the lurking undead scrabbled across cloth, working feverishly to get at the flesh that lie beneath. He swore viciously as ragged nails pierced cloth and skin alike, and he writhed in the grip of his countless captors.

_...Loptr..._

"Who the fuck is that?!" Sirius craned his neck, squinting into the shadows that danced and shifted like heavy smoke. The breathless, incorporeal voice hung heavily in the darkness, echoing in his head. Sirius grimaced, tugging away from the beings..._draugr_...as they clutched at his skin, skeletal fingers digging into his flesh.

_...Lokke..._

Sirius' heart threaded in his chest, and he cried out as the fingers of the creatures pierced his flesh, digging deeper, through muscle and sinew, scraping against bone. He choked on bile as the heavy metallic scent of blood choked his senses. Then...only then...did he remember the pain. The pain of the venom, as it drip...drip...dripped down onto him, searing his flesh, even as he struggled fruitlessly against his bonds. A Punishment...for chaos, for death,_"...for existing, really..."_.

_...Loki..._

His body convulsed, throbbing hotly in time with his heartbeat, with the blood pulsing out of his open wounds. Sirius arched and strained, trying to cower from the phantom voice, the power hiding in the darkness. It cut his mind like blades, shredding everything he that he was, everything that made him Sirius.

"No. _No_. Keep. The Fuck. Away. From. Me." Sirius' voice was guttural, a deep growl of a cornered animal, fighting for its life.

Sirius snarled, baring his bloody teeth at the hungry undead, even as they tugged and pulled at his greasy, matted hair and scraped rotting fingers across his flesh. In the back of his mind, where the Malevolent Other lurked, It too bared his teeth, less of a grimace and more of a feral grin. Sirius wailed, struggling as he felt the chains that held the Other breaking. He fought, completely, desperately for control over his ravaged body as the Other reached forward with pale, grasping fingers and _pulled_ at his mind.

..._God of Fire and Frost..._

An angry cry wrenched from raw, bleeding lips as rotting teeth dug into his shoulder, keeping him pinned. The Other smiled...a vicious, Cheshire smile. It was a smile that promised pain to those that had hurt Sirius, if he would. Just. Let. Go.

_...Jotunn..._

"Whoever you are..._what_ever you are, you can _fuck off_." Throat raw from screaming, he shouted into the depths of the black fog.

Sirius wasn't sure if he was speaking to the Voice, or the Other breaking free, but he was determined to break free from this endless Hell, whatever the cost. He was needed. His godson...no, not quite right...

His _son—_not James', _never_ James'—needed him.

His Harry needed him.

_...Kin of Spiders..._

Eyes stared challengingly into the dark, glowing a toxic blue-green, the color of neon lights and Bifrost shards. Sirius wrenched his head from the clutch of decaying hands, trying to shake loose the Other as he scraped across his mind. His eyes pulsed hotly, blue-green giving way to sickly, venomous green. His stubborn frown twisted on his face, pulling up into a dark, eager smile...a Trickster's smile.

"An impressive cage...but, not built, I think, to hold me for long." The voice..._that_ voice...was Sirius and was Other. It rang through the dark, overlapping and sweetening Sirius' gruff voice with the molten silver tones of The-Other-Who-Was-Lost. Sirius felt fear seize him, and he grasped desperately for control.

_...Trickster..._

The Other snarled, and Sirius fell down...down...down...down where it was dark, where he could no longer see and hear, but could only exist. Hands slid against the slick walls of the prison buried in the depths of his mind, rattling chains and yelling into the dark. His own echoes rang in his phantom ears, and his heart sank. Darkness and despair overwhelmed him, and he slept.

With a wrench of this shoulders, Loki easily tore away from the hoard of clutching corpses. His skin glowed white in the dark, like bleached bone in the moonlight.

_...Silver Tongue..._

Green eyes shone like lamps, cutting through the dark, from beneath a mass of matted hair, black as pitch. His lips twitched, twisting into an ugly smile. A long, sinuous body crouched, like a spider in its web. A hiss left his lips as the draugr scrabbled to catch hold of him. Magic...beautiful, wild, magic...surged forth like snakes, and flame, and curling smoke. It was viciousness and beauty, pulsing like blood under his skin...long denied, but never forgotten. Thin, cracked lips tugged into an amused smile as Loki watched the draugr burn, their ashes dusting his skin like a fine, powdery snow.

Slowly, he rose from his crouch. With graceful, delicate steps, he strode forward, his footsteps muffled by the ash. In a blink of the eye, Loki disappeared into the fog and the dark of Niflheim.

… … o … …

Delicate holly crackled and hissed as Harry clenched his fist around it tightly, the sickly red of the _Crucio_ surging forward like fire, licking at Bellatrix as she writhed on the floor. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and his throat burned, as if the incantation itself had scalded him. Harry's arm shook, but he kept it steady, watching fiercely as the spell-fire hit the witch in waves.

Harry's hand spasmed around the wand, the delicate pink of his palm turning a raw, bloody red as his wand crackled with heat, sizzling and smoking the longer he held the spell. With a wail of agony, Harry dropped his wand, clutching at his wrist. The wand was a mass of burned splinters and melted flesh, sparking uselessly on the floor. Harry paid it no mind as he struggled to keep his mind amidst the pain. His palm was in tatters, the edge of the torn skin a sickening, burned black.

Bellatrix flopped onto her side, convulsing as she coughed up blood, her lungs rattling in her chest. She whimpered, wordless in her distress, her mind shredded beyond repair. She whined, her lilting, sing-song taunts but an unpleasant memory. After a moment, the pungent scent of ammonia became apparent, drifting up from a dark, damp patch on her robes.

Harry shuddered. The air was stagnant, the scent of piss and blood hung heavily in the room, filling his nose and coating the back of his throat unpleasantly. Harry gagged, fighting down bile. He coughed, turning away from the scent, wiping desperately at his running nose with a tattered sleeve. A rasp of cloth and a choked cry surprised Harry, and he turned to stare as Bellatrix struggled to drag herself across the floor, her nails skritching against marble. She wailed, her arms shaking and straining as she slid forward, painful inch by painful inch. Blood filled lungs wheezed and rattled with every slide forward across the tile.

Harry stared, his eyes drawn towards her drawn face, lingering on the blood caked nostrils, and the red-tinged drool that dribbled down her face, dripping from her chin. A serene smile twitched at Harry's lips, growing larger as the woman collapsed forward, gave one last feeble shudder, and fell still.

Time slipped by endlessly, meaninglessly, as he stared at Bellatrix' corpse. His frail body, ravaged with pain, held upright by will alone. Somewhere, in the depth of his mind, Harry...the part of him that was kindness, and compassion, and _so utterly Lily_...screamed.

_You killed her._

Blood dripped from the mangled flesh of his hand, winding slowly from palm to fingertips. The drip...drip...drip...of the blood echoed loudly in his ears, and he flinched. Shoes slid slickly through the slippery mess as he backed away, one step...two...before he turned and fled, head pounding in time with his heartbeat as he stumbled back the way he came. He had _killed_ her...and he had _enjoyed_ it.

_Killed her._

There was no sound of footsteps, of panicked tears, only the sound of his pulse beating in time with his breath. Nothing mattered...not the battle, not his friends, not anything...save the rhythm of his shoes against the solid floor as he dashed through the halls blindly, fleeing from what he'd done.

_Killer._

He flinched away from the thought, fighting his growing panic with every breath. No. He would not think about that. Not now. Not ever. He wasn't evil, not like she had been. He _wasn't_.

_...ickle baby Potter is a KILLER..._

Harry screamed.

…

Deep in the heart of Asgard, lounging amongst the roots of Yggdrasil, the Norns let out a identical gasps. Their eyes shimmered with black as they lifted their blades as one, cutting deep into their palms. Blood the color of tree sap pooled in their pale palms, but neither Urdr, nor Verdandi, nor Skuld flinched at the pain, or paid any mind to the sticky warmth running through their fingers. The ephemeral white of their gowns hissed and sparked, withering like blackened flesh where their thick, dark blood splattered the fine cloth.

Pale, spindly fingers dipped into warm blood, dancing against smooth, pale bark as they worked as one to spell out their warning:

_Behold!_

_Prince, Fire-Bringer, Trickster_

_Sire to Mages and Sire to Monsters_

_The Silver-Tongue returns, Triumphant!_

… … o … …


	2. The Lost Boy

**Born Of Chaos**

This is a response to the _**Loki is Sirius Challenge**_by **Anhkmorpork**

**Summary (based upon Challenge): **As punishment for the Chitauri invasion of New York, Loki is stripped of his Asgardian magic and his memories, and sent down to Midgard to live his life as a mortal. However, Odin did not consider the consequences of meddling with the embodiment of chaos...though Loki's magic is gone, his power over the forces of chaos is not. Instead of landing in the present as a mortal man, he rips a hole through time and space, where—against all probability—he is reborn to magical mortals as the first born male Black Heir, Sirius Orion.

**Additional Challenge Elements in use:**

*Sterile James

*Harry is shape-shifting son of Sirius-Loki

**This story becomes AU post Sirius' Death. FYI.**

**Disclaimer: **Though this story will be, for the most part, gen (as in, no central pairings-even implied-save for Sirius (as Loki) and Lily), I will be making reference to CANON relationships and situations for the Harry Potter and MARVEL Universes, as well as Norse Mythos. What that means for you is-heterosexual and homosexual relationships, as well as some gender-bending (including cross-species). Though this won't be centric, it will be there, because it is CANON and it serves a purpose for my story. If this bothers you...too bad, so sad.

**Thanks to an amazing, ongoing discussion with njchrispatrick, I've decided to give this a go as an ongoing story. Only time (and my schedule) will tell how this expands, and for how long. **

**As a matter of interest, who would prefer A) more frequent, shorter posts VS B) Less Frequent, longer posts? Keep in mind, Real Life Things keep me busy and distracted, so you might be waiting a whiiiiile between posts, if you prefer longer posts. If there is no discernible preference amongst readers, I will continue as is. **

**FINAL NOTE: **If there are ANY issues w/ font size formatting and/or font symbols, keep in mind that this may be due to how FFnet formats text w/ foreign language symbols. I formatted this the best that I could, but if the text is UNREADABLE, please do let me know, and I will do my best to fix it. **7/11/14: Thanks to Kefalion for pointing out that Icelandic would have been a better choice in language for the Aesir. I have made the change. Everything else is what it was.**

**...**

**One: The Lost Boy**

Voices.

Voices in the dark...sliding past him, as fleeting as smoke. The voices hissed and scraped at his ears, like leaves rustling in the wind, slipping through his grasping fingers as he tried to latch on to the sound, find some meaning amidst the chaos.

...and then there was _that_ Voice—

"_-arry, can you hear me?_"

—calling out to him from the dark, a Voice he knew, with a name he couldn't quite place.

"_Harry? Harry, if you...ear me...ay somethi...y boy."_

Was that him? Was he Harry? His memories evaded him, slipping past him before he could get a hold of them, til he cried out, his wordless frustration ringing in the misty darkness. Fear clawed at his chest, choking him, his hands outstretched into the void, grasping at the distant voices, the wisps of memory teasing at the edge of his senses.

He cried without crying, feeling the echoing heat of tears beading on lashes, leaving salty trails down young skin. Like a frightened child, he keened, low and desperate, the sound piercing the abyss.

_Uss, dýrmætur barnið mitt...uss_

The Voice..._this_ Voice crackled like ice, bringing with it a bone-deep chill that piercing the dark. It slipped through the mist and shadows, surrounding him and blanketing him in welcome cold. He gasped breathlessly and shuddered. He shuddered from the frost that seemed to surge through his blood like ice, and he shuddered in recognition and wordless joy. He knew this Cold Voice, the strange, beloved Voice that pierced and hissed, a single Voice that echoed strangely in the dark.

"_arry? Harr...are yo...ight? Ca...ou...ear me?"_

"_I do...Hea...aster. Le...iss Gran...ry, o...ister Weas...ey?"_

"_Harr...?!"_

"_Ca...ou he...e, Har..?!"_

He cringed, raising shaking hands futilely to block out the rush of sound as the other Voices rose to a frenzied pitch, sliding and rustling like leaves caught in an Arctic wind, drowning out the soothing rustle of the familiar, Cold Voice. The Voice, the Cold Voice, hissed, the sound like scales across stone, and then...then, there was utter silence. His ears still ringing, Harry blinked, startled by the sudden silence. Slowly, he let his hands fall away from his ears as he peered through the mist, searching for the source of the Frozen Voice.

The echo of a pounding pulse beat against his ribcage. The darkness felt heavy, nearly oppressive, in the sudden silence. His skin crawled, and he trembled. Without the rustle of voices and the deep pulse of the Cold Voice, he felt frightened, like a fawn left to wander the dark of the forest on his own. He gasped, his eyes wide and frightened in the dark. Again, slipping through the mist like a winter breeze, the Cold Voice came, crooning, wrapping him up in words that froze the very air.

_Þu parft aldrei óttast mig, barn__..._

_...__sonur minn__..._

_...__fallegur sonur minn__..._

A smile flitted across his trembling lips, lifting the corners as a wave of comfort blanketed the frightened boy. He panted as his panicked breath evened out, calming his racing heart...

…

The Hogwarts' Infirmary was an island of silence in the chaotic bustle of Hogwarts castle. Safely behind the heavy doors of the sick wing, the vast hall was a haven, only the sound of the summer breeze breaking the silence in the vast hall. Golden sunlight filtered through the heavy glass of the windows, making the dust dance and sparkle in the light. Even the beds seemed to shine, the radiant white of their crisp linens reflecting in the light streaming in through the windows.

There was only a single spot of darkness in the entirety of the vast hall. Seated upright in an infirmary chair, a frail young boy sat slumped in the shadows, staring, unseeing, at the linens of his mussed bed. His skin glistened, not with the sweat of fever, but with a fine layer of burning frost. His guest, hunched over in his resplendent Aquamarine robes, cradled a heavily wrinkled hand to his chest, the tips of his fingers black from the remains of a persistent frost burn.

Albus stared intently at Harry. His hands twitched with the desire to reach out and rouse the boy. Slowly, he lifted his hands, ignoring his inner voice—who sounded remarkably like Poppy—begging him to reconsider. Albus' hand wand hand seized, his fingers twitching violently, and he let them fall limply into his lap. He grimaced, the throbbing of his blackened fingers reminding him, as his inner voice had tried to, why touching Harry would be a bad idea. He sighed, and continued to carefully watch the boy.

Harry was as he had been when he'd retrieved him from the Ministry—unresponsive and frozen to the touch, skin the faint icy-blue of fresh snow, his lashes dusted with frost. It looked so innocently pretty, sparkling like fresh snow-fall, and yet...he'd felt his skin burn a deep, blistering cold as he'd grabbed a hold of the screaming child.

He'd watched, uncomprehending, as his skin withered and blackened where they'd touched the child, the deadening cold slowly creeping up his wrists and well into his forearms. Biting back screams of agony, Albus clung to the child. Even now, the memory of the pain was enough to wipe out his memory of how, exactly, he'd made it back to the castle in one piece.

Even after a tutting Poppy had treated his hands, wrapping them in heavy potion-soaked gauze, Albus had felt the uncomprehending numbness obscuring his thoughts. All he could think about were his withered hands...less an old man's hands, and more the hands of the blackened mummies of the North, found buried deep in the frigid Peat Bogs of Norway.

He'd feared losing them...if not the entirety of his hands, then a few fingers, at least. As a Transfiguration Master and Researcher, he would have sorely missed the use of his hands. Though he could have gotten by without them as Headmaster, in theory, it would not have lessened the hurt of losing the ability to practice his craft. Even so, he had resigned himself to the possibility, as Madam Pomfrey tutted and frowned at his black and brittle fingers, the skin of his palms cracked and caked with thick, frozen blood.

In the end, though he had not lost either hand, or his fingers, neither he nor Madam Pomfrey held out hope that his hands would ever recover from such severe nerve damage. It was, all told, a small price to pay, in the scheme of things. Even with his present regrets, he would do it again in a moment, if he had to make the choice again. This child...this pitiful, catatonic child...was worth that, and more.

Albus jerked, breaking free of his somber thoughts, as a rattling moan shook free from the child's blue lips. "Harry? Can you hear me, my boy?"

He watched, his lips into a tight line, as tears trailed down that pale face, freezing into to sparkling crystals, the salt like a fine dust on the frozen cheeks. A smile lifted the corners of those blue-tinged lips, and Albus' shoulders drooped in sincere relief.

_He's alright. Harry's going to be alright._

Albus swallowed, his wrinkled face streaked with relieved, happy tears. "Harry, child...if you can hear me, follow my voice. Come back to me, now."

…

He blinked through the relaxed haze that had settled over his mind. The Voice...not the Cold Voice, but the other Voice...the Voice he'd remembered from before, had called him Harry, again. Harry. That _was_ his name, wasn't it? The trembled child grabbed a hold of the wisps of memory surrounding that name, and that Other Voice, and tugged.

_Fara til hans, nú__...__lítið Lokison mín..._

He-Who-Was-Called-Harry smiled as the Cold Voice brushed against his ear like a soft kiss from icy lips. He knew without understanding that the Cold Voice wanted him to follow the Other Voice, let it lead him out of the darkness and the shadows. With one final sigh, Harry hauled himself to his feet and stepped into the Mist.

…

Loki blinked the film away from his eyes sluggishly, his breath coming in deep, choking rasps.

_Oh, my. How...unexpected._

It was very rare that one of this monstrous, beautiful children could take him by surprise, but this...

...to call out to him with such desperation, such fear, that he was pulled to his side involuntarily was something he'd never thought possible. Given time, he could have found his way to the child's side, sliding through the shadowed paths and Dark Highways of the Bifrost. Of course, his child would have been trapped much longer than desired, but he would have made it to the child's side before he'd come to permanent harm. _This_, though...

Though the technique lacked finesse, the fact that the boy had ripped through the membrane of Niflheim and dragged him into the shadows of his own subconscious showed marvelous promise. A promise he would have to be thicker than Thor not to exploit.

Loki, staggering to his feet, felt a dark, pleased smile twist his lips.

_Oh, yes...full of such marvelous promise..._

… … o … …

English to Icelandic Translations courtesy of Google Translate. Any mistakes should be attributed to this website.

_Uss, dýrmætur barnið mitt...uss_: Hush, my precious child...hush

_Þu parft aldrei óttast mig, barn: _You need never fear me, child

_sonur minn: _my son

_fallegur sonur minn: _my beautiful son

_Fara til hans, nú:_ Go to him, now

_lítið Lokison mín: _my little Lokison


	3. Storm Brewing

**Born Of Chaos**

This is a response to the _**Loki is Sirius Challenge**_by **Anhkmorpork**

**Summary (based upon Challenge): **As punishment for the Chitauri invasion of New York, Loki is stripped of his Asgardian magic and his memories, and sent down to Midgard to live his life as a mortal. However, Odin did not consider the consequences of meddling with the embodiment of chaos...though Loki's magic is gone, his power over the forces of chaos is not. Instead of landing in the present as a mortal man, he rips a hole through time and space, where—against all probability—he is reborn to magical mortals as the first born male Black Heir, Sirius Orion.

**Long Time, No See. Seriously. As I warn in my profile, updating might be sporadic. I needed to find a job, and I am moving in less than a month, AND I still have things to tie up, so all that absolutely has to come before writing, unfortunately. Still, hope this chapter makes up for it.**

**Two: Storm Brewing**

"_...I don't just wish you rain, Beloved—I wish you the beauty of storms..."—John Geddes, A Familiar Rain._

…

Thor stood on the edge of the great abyss and stared. Even with all the power of the Tesseract, the Allfather could not return the Bifrost to its former glory. Glowing, pulsing veins of blue magic marred the glittering surface, ugly and raw like scar tissue. He frowned, scuffing a heavy boot against a bulging vein of power, feeling the shock of it like electricity where the aged leather met the glowing current of light.

Really, for such a small thing, the Tesseract was dangerously, marvelously powerful. He would never tell the Allfather of his doubts about keeping such a temptation locked away with the rest of the spoils of war, but he felt them, none the less. Mortals may be more susceptible to its influence, true, but Loki was proof enough that even the gods fell before such great and terrible magics.

_Loki..._

Regret was like a poison, pulsing through his veins with every beat of his heart. He should have known something was amiss. He should have acted sooner, and yet...he had failed his brother, yet again.

He had failed to act, even as the toxic, unnatural blue infecting his brother's eyes had glimmered in time with the roaring of the damaged Bifrost. Even as the great bridge roared and writhed like a great, angry bilgesnipe, its tainted power tangling with Loki's, Thor had stood by, impotent against such ancient power.

Heimdallr himself had been powerless against such chaos, but this was no consolation. Once more, Thor had stood by and watched his brother fall. He feared that, this time, there would be no second chances. Even if his father's spell worked, there was no telling where, or when, or in what form the mortal Aesir had been dropped...

...and so, Thor mourned. He mourned with his Exalted Mother as the years passed and there was no hint of Loki's presence. He mourned as his father continued to rule, as hard and as unforgiving as stone, as if the loss of his youngest child—adopted or no—made no difference to him. He mourned as his trusted friends, his companions, quietly tried to cajole him out of his sadness, as if the loss of "one such as Loki" was not worth his grieving.

"You'll be the end of Midgard, at this rate."

Thor glanced briefly at a sober-faced Fandral as he sidled up to him, peering fearlessly into the empty void. Fandral let a teasing smirk pull at his lips. "Your temper is as it always was, my Prince, and the mortals suffer for it. I hear from Heimdallr that your Iron Companion has been cursing your name for days for all of the unseasonable rain."

Thor felt a rueful smile tug at his lips. "Perhaps so."

A heavy silence settled between the friends, unusual in its tenseness. Thor, lost in thought, was strangely content to let the silence linger. Fandral sighed, and Thor felt his eyes bore into the side of his face.

"Do not mistake our dislike of your misery for a dismissal of the cause of it. We may not have been overly fond of Prince Loki and his tricks, but we grieve for the pain his loss causes you and the Queen. All we ask is that you do not punish yourself with your grief."

Blue locked with blue, and Thor smiled sadly, gripping the forearms of his shield-brother tightly. "You may be Fandral the Dashing in reputation, but you are ever Fandral the Wise, my friend."

The blonde laughed, his eyes twinkling merrily. "That is our secret, my lord. I would not want the ladies to think I'm growing maudlin in my old age."

Thor laughed, shaking his head ruefully. With one last lingering glance at the broken Bifrost, he let his companion lead him toward the Meade Hall.

…

As the last of the rain finally petered out, Tony let out a shout of rapture. Pepper, startled, sidled away from the mumbling, cursing genius as he simultaneously crowed in triumph and glared at the ceiling. Honestly, as much as she adored Tony, she wasn't sure she'd ever figure him out.

… …

Albus swore, uncharacteristically, as his gaze rested on the empty hospital bed that should house his still ailing student. Even now, frost clung to the sheets, proving he had probably missed the boy's exit by moments. He sighed, running a callused hand down his face, tugging at his beard in restrained frustration.

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he looked, he never seemed closer to an answer about just what had happened to his student. Every lead seemed to end with more questions than answers...and the answers he did find were impossible to prove, as the boy's parents weren't exactly around to answer any potentially uncomfortable questions that those answers implied.

"Albus, what..?" Poppy looked surprised to see him for all of the few seconds it took for her to notice Harry was missing. Her lips pressed together tightly, and she puffed up like an agitated owl. "That is the second time this afternoon that the boy has wandered off!"

He looked at the nurse, surprised. This was the first he'd heard of this, and he wasn't best pleased that the matron hadn't informed him immediately. Poppy seemed to read his displeasure in his gaze, and gave him a sharp look in retort. "I thought it a better use of my time to find the boy then to go sending messages to you about it!"

Albus huffed, but didn't argue. Like Poppy had said, it was better to just get on with things and find the child then argue. "I'll inform the rest of the staff. If the child should wander back, I would appreciate you letting me know sooner rather than later." With a haughty sniff, Poppy wandered off. Albus fought with all his dignity not to roll his eyes like the youth he no longer was. Honestly, you'd think he was asking for the moon and the stars, but then...he and Poppy had never seen eye to eye when it came to Harry, so her reluctance to involve him was understandable.

With one last sigh, Albus strode out of the hospital wing. He had a wayward student to find.

… …

Harry stared, face relaxed in awe, as he watched the storm rage overhead. From the vantage point of the open air astronomy tower, it felt like he could touch the sky. His hand, pale as snow, reached slowly toward the sky as if he were trying to grasp at the rolling clouds.

He gave no thought to the biting cold of the rain, only noticing vaguely as the water seemed to freeze the moment it touched his skin. His sodden arms glistened, the frozen drops clinging to him, reflecting the stormy gray of the clouds against his pale flesh.

Lashes and hair glistening with frozen raindrops, the boy felt his heart race with every rumble of thunder, every spark of violent electricity. It was like he was falling into the storm, being consumed by it, and it was magnificent.

"—arry? Harry, child?"

Harry blinked, peering around at the sound of a familiar voice calling out to him, straining to be heard over the noise of the storm. The Headmaster, sodden robes hanging around him like a wet sack, mounted the last of the tower steps, and stepped out onto the slick stone of the tower. He paused, a rumble of thunder making him startle, and he tossed the clouds a nervous look.

"Harry, what are you doing up here?"

He didn't answer. Honestly, he felt no need to. It should have been obvious to the professor that he was watching the storm. Instead, he turned his face back towards the storm. For a moment, there was nothing else but the pure, natural violence of the thunderstorm. Then, he felt the uncomfortable heat of the professor draw near, even before he heard the wet patting of his feet on stone.

An aged hand settled on his shoulder, gently leading him away. He wanted to resist, to stay and watch the storm, but knew he'd never win against the Headmaster. He dragged his feet, face still pointed toward the sky, as the professor lead him away.

… …

As Albus lead a reluctant Harry away from the tower, he frowned in concern. For a moment, just a moment when he'd first seen the child standing under the freezing rain, he could have sworn the boy was glowing a shimmering, icy blue.


End file.
